Castle of Glass
by chrissie0707
Summary: Missing Scene/Tag for 14X10 "Nihilism." Sam lifts a hand, gestures to Dean as a chill runs through him. He can't say it. Can't say Michael's still in there, and acknowledge that this is the plan. Because suddenly, this plan doesn't seem all that great, or reassuring, or secure, no matter how much he trusts his brother. No matter how strong Dean is. (Part II added)
1. Part I

_Author Note: Just a quick tag for 14X10. Shout out to Nova42 for the quick, IN-PERSON beta, which is just the best and coolest thing in the world._

* * *

 **Castle of Glass**

 **Part I**

He knows now how deeply he was buried in his own mind, and there won't be a quick or easy route back. Sam and Cas, wearing twin reassuring smiles _,_ wink out of the dimly lit bar like someone flipped a switch. It's not as simple a task for Dean, with the muted shouting behind him, the relentless pounding on the cooler door where Michael is trapped and held back by nothing more than sheer willpower. He flinches as a fist collides dully with the stainless steel, with his _mind_ , and clenches his jaw.

 _You're mine now, you son of a bitch._

Flashes of color and disembodied voices do their best to distract Dean as he works his way back through waves of memories. They crash over him, tugging and pulling, the ones he's repressed and the ones he's held tight all vying for his attention and threatening to pull him back down, to trap him here all over again.

The bar hadn't entirely been Michael's doing, but a dream Dean had once, years ago. They were still hunting, and the world was still crappy, but in smaller, manageable bites. A vamp nest here, a werewolf pack there, run-of-the-mill evil without the threat of an imminent apocalypse waiting around the corner, and they hadn't lost nearly as many friends to the life. Rocky's had felt like home in a way that was different from the bunker. The bar held a sense of consistency, and comfort, and it was _his_ in a way that nothing has ever been. But it wasn't real, and he shouldn't have needed Sam to tell him that.

He wades through it all until his mind stumbles into a brief, unsettling freefall, and he knows he's made it back before he even tries to open his eyes or draw a breath. Only the real world feels this stark and cold.

Everything about himself feels sluggish and heavy and not quite his, and it takes some work to get his eyes open. He hears a muted commotion and numerous voices trading back and forth with some urgency, but it's all faraway-sounding. He thinks he recognizes Sam in the din, but has no idea what's being said.

Dean opens his eyes to a blurry, indistinct world, and he blinks hard, struggling to focus. An itch and pull along his temples and forehead demands his attention and he moves reflexively to investigate, but his hands stop short with a harsh jangle that rebounds in his woozy head. An answering frustrated pound echos against that closed door in his mind.

He turns his hands, stares down dumbly at the cuffs around his wrists, the chain connected to the table, and feels a flash of panic at being restrained and unable to move, to pull away. But there's pride, too. Because they got him, corralled the son of a bitch out here before Dean got him locked down inside.

"Dean?"

"Yeah," he replies automatically, but doesn't recognize his own voice. He blinks again, raises his impossibly heavy head and squints up at his brother. At Cas. At Jack, whose expression is a pale mix of relief and wariness. Dean recognizes the feel of the bunker, of home, before he can really make out the familiar details of the library around him. There's a yawning gap in his memory that could stand for lost hours, days, or weeks, but it feels like he just saw them all.

Tension hangs heavy in the air, as no one makes a move to remove the chain, to unlock the cuffs. He raises his hands toward his brother, and Sam flinches, doesn't step forward. Really, Dean can't blame him for his hesitance.

He'd been so stupid. There were signs, red flags. He should have said something to the others, about the brief, fiery headaches and blurry vision, the weightless, unbalanced feeling that had been randomly overtaking him for weeks. But he'd been so preoccupied with putting up that front, with being _okay_. He wasn't, and he shouldn't have walked right up to Michael assuming the son of a bitch hadn't willingly left without some sort of contingency plan, without a way to get back in.

Just like he shouldn't assume now that the archangel won't have a way to get out. Eventually.

The door rattles as Michael throws his full weight into it, and Dean closes his eyes, breathes. _It's just you_ , he tells himself.

"Dean?"

His eyes snap open at the sound of his brother's voice, and his vision tunnels until he can't see the others in the room, until it's just him and Sam. "It's okay, Sammy. It's gonna be okay." Dean swallows roughly, nods. "I've got him."

 _It's just you._

* * *

Dean swallows roughly, nods. His eyes are a little bright, but his voice is sure. "I've got him."

A weary smile tugs at Sam's lips, and his shoulders slump in relief. He moves forward, but Jack reaches out, grips his arm with surprising force.

"Are you sure Michael's gone?" he asks, stiff and guarded and drawn, eyes shifting to Dean and back.

Dean blinks and lifts his chin, but Sam speaks first, because doesn't want his brother to feel like he owes any of them an explanation. Not for _anything_ that's happened. "He's not gone," he answers softly.

Jack recoils, steps back. "What?"

"He's…" Sam lifts a hand, gestures to Dean as a chill runs through him. He can't say it. Can't say _he's still in there_ , and acknowledge that _this_ is the plan _._ Because suddenly, this plan doesn't seem all that great, or reassuring, or secure, no matter how much he trusts his brother. No matter how strong Dean is. But there's no taking it back now. Not without risking Dean's life. Maybe all their lives.

"He's locked up," he assures Jack, voice louder than it needs to be. Then he turns to Dean. "And he's not getting out." He pins his gaze on his brother's as he says it, makes sure he's assuring Dean, too, instilling as much of that trust and confidence in the man as he can.

Dean narrows his eyes, jerks his chin in the slightest of nods before he again lifts his cuffed hands. "Then can you let me out of these damn things?" He drops his gaze, wrinkles his nose as he takes in the stiff, tailored wool ensemble Michael favored. "So I can get out of these clothes."

"Right. Sorry." Sam curses his hesitance as he now hurries forward to release his brother from Michael's chains, and Dean won't look him in the eyes as he does.

Free of the cuffs, Dean immediately drags the leads from his head with obvious irritation and moves to stand, eyes widening as he takes in the state room, the overturned chairs and books knocked to the floor, Maggie and the other hunters looking haggard and pale and wary. "What the hell happened here?"

"Monsters?" Maggie offers.

"Okay." Sam draws out the word, looking around the large room. "Where are they?"

She barks a small, crazed-sounding laugh that lifts her shoulders but she doesn't answer, just turns her gaze to Jack.

"You didn't." Castiel steps toward him, frowning. "Jack, tell me you didn't use your powers."

"I had to." The kid looks down at his outstretched palms. "To save everyone."

"It's okay, Jack," Sam interjects, earning a sharp glare from Cas. He gets it, but he needs to prioritize, to triage the situation. "What I mean is, let's just put a pin in this for now." He raises his eyebrows at the angel. "Okay?"

Cas nods tightly, and Jack follows suit.

"Okay." Sam runs his hands through his hair, turning back to his brother. Prioritizing. "You're good?"

"Yeah, I'm good." He rubs at his wrist, where the cuff was, and his gaze travels up his arm, following the sleeve of the wool jacket. He frowns, lays a palm against his chest and shifts his shoulders with discomfort. "Could use a shower, though."

Sam gets that instinct, understands completely what his brother wants to do. Dean reacted in much the same way when they got him back here from Duluth, wanting to shed all evidence of the possession like a snake sheds its skin. But Dean is still technically possessed, and Michael won't wash away, no matter how badly his brother might wish it so. He's _in there_ now, trapped in one of the deepest corners of Dean's mind, and no shower spray will scour away that stain.

A long, awkward silence falls over the room, and Sam knows that they're all thinking the same thing: this is a temporary solution to a serious problem.

 _I'm the cage._

Dean's also a _man_ , and he's going to have to sleep at some point, to relax, to laugh, and let his guard down. Sam, who knows a little something about arbitrary barriers within the mind, can't see how his brother is going to keep the door shut tight indefinitely. Michael won't tire, won't wear down. He'll just keep pummeling that door with all he's got, until he breaks through. Until he breaks Dean down.

Almost unconsciously, Sam follows his brother down the hall toward the showers until Dean stiffens and turns, raises a hand.

"This is sort of a one-man job, Sam."

He stops in his tracks, shifts his weight uneasily. "Right. Yeah. I know."

Dean raises his chin, clearly straddling the line of exhaustion, but defiant and stubborn and all of the things he's going to need to be for this plan to work for any amount of time. "I'm good, Sam. Really."

"I know," he says again, lamely.

His brother cocks his head and smiles, that easy grin that never fails to put Sam at ease. "Then can a guy shower in peace?"

Sam waves a hand. "It's all yours, man."

He hopes it's all in his mind, the falter in Dean's smile as he drops his gaze, as he turns and continues down the hall. But he knows better than that. Knows exactly how good his brother is at putting on a show when he needs to. Sam has to be aware of the falters, the cracks, has to know them when he sees them.

Exhaustion falls heavily over Sam, dragging on his shoulders, making his legs feel like stone as he moves back toward the library. The whole ordeal can't have taken more than eight hours. One night, but it feels like he hasn't slept in days. And he knows he can't sleep now, not just yet. There might not be monsters attacking, and Michael might not be in the driver's seat, but he is still _in Dean_.

Cas had it right. _Dean is more than strong_. But strong as he is, Dean can't keep an archangel locked away indefinitely in his mind. The door will open, and Michael will get out, and they need to start contingency-planning. Sooner rather than later.

 _To be continued..._


	2. Part II

_Author Note: Started having some thoughts for a fic to bridge the space between 14X10 and 14X11, but as it started to form, it sounded more like a continuation of this tag already posted. So, here's a surprise second part!_

* * *

 **Part II**

Sam nearly faceplants in the hallway, and it becomes clear that contingency planning might have to be put on hold for a few hours. He barely makes it to his room, collapses face-down on his bed, fully-clothed and smelling of sweat.

He wakes just before noon, feeling unrested but restless. His head pounds, and his neck and back ache from the awkward angle at which he slept. His jaw cracks around a yawn as he forces himself upright and drags his weary body from bed and gathers clothes he hasn't spent the better part of two days in. The sleepy fug mostly clears in the shower, and his stomach grumbles aggressively as he makes his way to the kitchen for coffee.

Jack is at the table, attacking a bowl of cereal with a childish quality that brings a smile to Sam's face. "Hey, easy," he chides, grabbing a mug from the rack. "What'd that cereal ever do to you?"

The kid's cheeks are puffed like a chipmunk collecting nuts. He swallows, and his gaze darts guiltily to the box of artificial, sugary crap cereal that Dean stocks in favor of an actual balanced breakfast. "It's all I could find," he says, eyes wide and innocent, and unconvincing.

Sam chuckles as he fills his mug from the half-filled pot. The brew is no longer steaming, and a film has settled on top, but it's caffeine. He hears muted chatter filtering down the hall from the library, but he doesn't recognize his brother's voice in the din, or Castiel's. "Where's Cas?"

"He's making sure Michael's monsters have really scattered," Jack answers between bites. "That none of them are still hanging around nearby. Waiting."

Sam nods, though he's chilled by the thought. Like the monsters out there might know something they don't. "How are you feeling?"

"I'm fine." Jack moves to shovel another mouthful of cereal into his mouth but pauses, frowns as he settles the spoon against the side of the bowl. "Sam…are you mad? That I used my powers?"

He sighs. "No, Jack, I'm not mad." Sam lowers himself to a seat at the table across from the kid, wraps his hands around his mug and lifts his shoulders. "It's just…sacrificing a piece of yourself to save us? That's not something you can make a habit of. None of us want to see you making the same mistakes we have. Me, Dean, Cas – we want better for you."

Jack tilts his head, frowning thoughtfully. "I don't think it was a mistake to save you."

Sam chuffs a small laugh, lays a palm against his chest. "Believe me, Jack, I appreciate it. We all do. But we also have to think about the cost. We don't want to risk losing what makes you…you."

The kid drops his gaze, absently twirling the handle of the spoon in his hand. "Sam…is Dean going to be okay?"

He swallows, bobs his chin. "Yeah, he's gonna be fine. We're going to fix this, for real. And we're going to do it without chipping away any more of your soul." He raises his eyebrows. "Got it?"

Jack nods, but there's a new worry gnawing at Sam's chest, and he can't help feeling they're going to be having this conversation again. He's quickly distracted by a different sort of gnawing, as his stomach rumbles audibly.

"Now, how about we get some real food?"

* * *

Sam pauses a moment outside his brother's closed door, weighing well-ingrained boundaries against the direness of this present situation. He's just been in his brother's head, just seen the darkest and most trauma-drenched corners of Dean's mind. And while Dean might thrive there, while Michael might not have buried him there, it doesn't mean his brother won't bury himself in dark corners and darker thoughts.

Yeah, boundaries and privacy aren't really high on Sam's list of priorities right now. He shifts his shoulders, knocks on the door once before pushing it open. "Hey."

Dean's got his laptop out on his bed, one leg tucked up as he studies the screen intently. He looks deep in thought, preoccupied. It's no wonder, with what he's been through the past twenty-four hours, but it's still…unsettling. Sam hadn't expected his brother to be laughing and joking, not yet, but this shut-up-in-his-room routine from Dean puts him on edge.

Dean frowns but doesn't make a fuss about the sudden entry, doesn't even raise his gaze as he taps a few keys on the computer. "Hey," he returns, low and gruff.

There's a strange energy in the room, something cold and tense. At first glance, it doesn't seem like Dean has slept. He's pale and drawn, hair mussed in clumps like he's been running his hands through it. There's a half-drunk beer on the bedside table, and despite the relatively early hour, that's not necessarily eyebrow-raising. Not until Sam spots the empty whiskey bottle on the desktop, the neighboring glass with an amber ring around the bottom.

His brother definitely didn't sleep. He's been up all morning, obviously doing some serious drinking, and likely some serious thinking to match.

Sam tears his eyes from the evidence, crams his hands in his pockets. "How ya doing?"

Dean doesn't answer, in a pointed sort of way. Sam bites his lip, bobs his head. "Jack and I were talking about getting some food." Another pause, another beat of weighty, concerning silence from his brother. "That sound like anything you'd be interested in?"

"What?" Dean finally looks up, wrinkles his nose. "No. Thanks."

"All right." But he doesn't leave. His brother's eyes are dark and faraway, trained on a distance beyond this room, beyond the walls of the bunker. Sam folds his arms over his chest, unable to ignore the strangeness in the room. "Dean – "

"Changed my mind," his brother interrupts. "Go ahead and get me something."

"Sure thing." But he's not put at ease, not in the least. He knows his brother too well. Knows this tactic too well. Dean's heading him off at that pass, saying exactly what he thinks Sam wants to hear to dissuade him from pressing further into those dark corners.

Something's different. The look on Dean's face is…concerning. Carefully guarded in a way that drops Sam's heart into his stomach, because he knows his brother is keeping something from him. "Dean, did anything…I mean, did something happen? Last night?"

Dean leans back, crosses his own arms and raises an eyebrow. "You mean besides the archangel locked in an imaginary cooler in my mind?"

Sam swallows. "Yeah. Besides that."

"Nope." Dean drops his eyes back to the laptop screen, pokes again at the keyboard. "Anything else?"

He shakes his head, thumps a light fist against the doorframe. "No. I'll, uh, let you know when the food's here."

"Okay."

* * *

When the words on the page begin to blur, Sam knows it's time to take a break. It's been hours, and he's still seen no sign of his brother in these communal rooms, or passed him in the halls on a trip down to the john or to fetch more coffee.

Sam can't quell his unease. The idea of his brother having to keep an archangel subdued with nothing more than his willpower is terrifying. There's no questioning Dean's strength, but this is about more than that. This isn't distrust, it's that Michael has stolen Dean from him, _twice_ , while he was standing right there.

So, yeah, he doesn't feel great about not having eyes on his brother for a prolonged amount of time.

He tells the others he's going to take a walk around the halls and stretch his legs, but they all know he's going to check on Dean. Again. Their collective worry for the man is so strong, Dean might as well be sitting at the table with them instead of being tucked away down the hall in his own room.

From down the corridor, Sam can see the door to Dean's room is open now, and that's at least minimally encouraging. As he draws closer, tough, he sees the way his brother is leaning against the sink, tension in his posture as he stares into the mirror over the basin. Sam slows, coming up on the threshold just as Dean straightens and turns back toward the center of the room.

He sucks in a breath, stumbles like one leg's been chunked out from under him. Dean catches himself on the edge of his bed and stays that way for a long moment, hunched over and blinking hard, obviously unaware of Sam's presence in the doorway.

Sam's frozen in place, unsure of what's happening, of what he should do. If this is Michael, there's nothing he _can_ do. His heart thunders madly in his chest. If the archangel gets out, that's it. That's the end, of everything. He'd made the threat in that bar in Dean's mind.

 _You'll be nothing but blood and bone._

He tenses, fingers forming a fist at his side. _Come on, Dean_.

No one's guard has been dropped just because Dean is back. The juiced-up angel cuffs are within easy reach in the library. Although, if Michael is to be believed, there won't be any reason for restraints if the archangel breaks free of his mental prison.

They're not there yet.

They can't be anywhere near there yet.

 _Come on, Dean_.

Finally, Dean swallows and lifts his hand from the mattress, thumps it back once in aggravation before straightening completely. He runs a hand down his face, jaw clenched, breathing roughly.

Sam feels certain that he brother is cursing himself – his weakness – when he's already proven his strength. He knows he has to make his presence known _now_ , before Dean catches him standing here like a mute idiot who just caught a show he wasn't invited to. He shakes off the shock of seeing Michael give the bars such a rattle so soon, and sweeps into the room like it's any other day.

Dean acknowledges him with a quick raise of his eyebrows as he moves to the desk and the fresh bottle of whiskey waiting there, but doesn't speak.

Next to the bottle, the bag of burger and fries is still on the desktop where Sam had dropped it off hours earlier, limp and greasy-bottomed, and clearly untouched. "Did you eat?" he blurts.

"Hmm?" Dean looks up sharply, brows drawn together. "Uh, no." He rubs at the back of his neck. "Wasn't really hungry."

Sam thinks of that stumble, of everything it could mean. Of Dean needing to keep his strength up, on all fronts, if they're going to make it through this. "You should eat something," he says softly.

"Yeah, I will," Dean responds, staring into the whiskey.

Sam shifts his weight, watches with a wince as his brother downs a sizeable glass. "Do you – do we need to talk about anything?"

"No." Dean exhales, runs another hand down his pale, lined face, but the weariness though won't wipe away. "No, Sam, it's – it's cool. I'm good. Promise." He smiles, thin and tight and unconvincing.

Sam wants to call his brother on it. Wants to ask how he's doing – how he's _really_ doing – and what the hell that just was. But he wants to know all of that for _him_. Not for Dean. He knows better. _God,_ he knows better.

 _Don't scratch the wall._

He can't pick at it, can't encourage his brother to pick at it. He can't do anything to suggest there may be cracks in that wall, vulnerabilities in his brother's strength. Because that's about all Dean's got right now.

So he leans in the doorway, clears his throat. "Wanna take a break from the – " he waves a hand – "solo work? Hang out in the library with the rest of us for a bit?"

The open, hopeful look in Dean's gaze nearly guts him. "You guys getting anywhere?"

"Not yet," Sam admits, and knows it strikes his brother like a blow. "But we will."

Dean smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "I know."

"It's only been a day," he finds himself saying. But Sam can see the toll that just one day has taken on his brother. What it's requiring of him to keep that door shut tight. And he knows, with awful certainty, that Michael will break Dean down, eventually.

Sam meant it when he told Jack it wasn't worth sacrificing part of himself to save them. He meant it for _Jack._ He _will_ find a way to take this weight from Dean, to get rid of Michael for good. To _save_ his brother.

He'll read every book in this bunker, will flip pages until his eyes and fingers bleed. Because Dean _did_ _this_ for him. He said yes to Michael to save _him_.

The least Sam can do is repay the favor, whatever it takes.

* * *

 _The End. For reals now. :P_


End file.
